


In The Dark

by Snake (Fatality145)



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:08:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatality145/pseuds/Snake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Shepard was no biotic with a problematic amp, and he didn’t get as frequent a migraine, but, when he did, they were a force to be reckoned with.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> fluffy buzzcut petting and scratching yaes (◡‿◡✿)

“Hey, Shepard, are you--…?”

 

                He couldn’t get the voice-feed disconnected from his helmet fast enough, cutting it off with static discharge which only made it worse, groaning through the mouthpiece. He wasn’t sure if it was better with his eyes opened or closed, too-bright light burning his retinas, or swirling colours behind his lids that made him feel like he was about to arch over and hurl all over the shuttle bay.

 

                His shoulder pressed against the elevator doors, armoured forehead bumping it, continually pushing in the button to get the thing down to his level. Concentrating hard enough on his knees not buckling beneath him, Shepard just about tripped up as the doors slid open before him, stumbling inside.

 

                A few more voices called to him, and he waved them off with another grunt, each sound and movement pounding into his skull, jags in the spaces behind his eyes. After he blindly slapped his hand over the inner controls, to get up to his room, the doors closed behind him with a hiss, taking a sharp breath in to counter the vertigo as the elevator slid up.

 

                Shepard was no biotic with a problematic amp, and he didn’t get as frequent a migraine, but, when he did, they were a force to be reckoned with. It was probably a deal along the lines of getting used to something that happened often, then having no resistance against something that didn’t. _Conditioning_. The rest of him might have been weathered to the bone, scrapes and cuts and bruises and bullet holes having become something that, if they didn’t happen, there was a problem. But when it came to headaches, he might as well be shed completely of armour.  

 

                He was almost scared to de-pressurize his helm from his gear, that it might be the breaking point and actually crack his head open. Tense fingers at his throat, it took more concentration than he would have liked to press in the buttons, air whistling between the breach, his feverish neck covering in gooseflesh all down the back and down his spine, shuddering in his armour.

 

                A few more wounds littered his body, that time, than usual, if only because they were self-inflicted, shouldering a wall too hard, unable to steady his own spatial awareness, faceplanting into cover rather than crouching behind it.

 

                Shuffling out of the elevator once it came to his floor, he ducked his head, pulling off the helmet and letting out the terse breath he’d been holding, dropping it. The armour on his slumped shoulders felt about a tenfold heavier, metal scraping against metal as he carefully walked down the two steps into the den.

 

                His eyes were kept shut, blocking out the too many lights of his quarters, the pounding in his ears and in his head covering up the sound of the private terminal. It was a good thing, too, because if he were to hear it, he would probably answer the beckons, like he always did.

 

                Knees meeting with the end of the bed, his nerves were shot enough that he didn’t even care that he was still fully clad in armour, flopping down onto the covers, covered in grit and grime and blood, only some of it not being his own.

 

                A low, perpetual groan came from him, rubbing his stubbled cheek over the sheets as he lifted a hand, taking a few tries to click his middle finger and thumb together. The resound, while echoing in his head, gave more relief than pain as the lights shut off. Old-world tech he’d picked up and installed himself, mainly because he didn’t want to ask EDI every single time he wanted the lights off.

 

                With every pulse that ran hot in his throat and his chest, his limbs, on his tongue, more waves of that pain washed through, the pain itself making his pulse faster, creating a vicious cycle, sweat dotting his skin, beneath the armour, making it sticky, but he hardly cared, then.

 

                Purposely slowing his breath, Shepard concentrated on that, deliberately inhaling, exhaling, despite his diaphragm and lungs squished up in the unrelenting gear, on his belly. Focusing on the passing air and not something else that would just elevate the stress, further the migraine, like the almost-but-not-quite failed mission he’d just arrived back from.

 

                Maybe he was getting sick, though he desperately hoped not. It was pathetic, he thought, that something like a headache could run him down, like that. As someone who withstood dying once before, as someone who was almost constantly under fire, with a million targets on his back, a million enemies wanting his head on a platter, a simple headache had him practically catatonic.

 

                A bare moment past before his eyes fluttered again, the time on the alarm clock having definitely changed. There were more hisses in the cabin, and he only realized what it was when he felt the pressure alleviating from his body, one portion at a time. First his legs, his feet, moving upward, then his shoulders and upper arms, the gloves taken off one after the other, armour piled up elsewhere.

 

                He took in a shuddery breath as the breastplate was removed, feeling like he had so much more room, the air getting to his hot skin. A faint blue light reflected of the surfaces in the room, shifting, swaying, so much better than the blaring flares of the down lights, soothing, even.

 

                Shepard only slightly shifted as his sullied undershirt was pulled up over his head, strangely soft palms running over the contours of his spine, his scarred shoulder blades and the lightly expanding and contracting tray of ribs.

 

                “Head up, just for a sec’, Shepard,” That voice was so careful and quiet, gravelly velvet.

 

                Doing as told, the edge of a cool glass met with his lower lip, water tipped upward and into his mouth. It had a different taste, though, pre-medicated, but he still drunk the whole thing, the icy aqua feeling like it permeated out through him, calming the fire in his head.

 

                “That’s better… I, uh, I thought you might want to take a nap. Before I came up, I mean. Didn’t think it would be in armour, though.”

 

                “How do you handle these…?” Shepard groaned, crossing his arms beneath his head, burying his face into the forearms and only just looking out, watching the undulating biotic flares twitch and flow. A better light source than anything else.

 

                “Ah… You know how I get, it isn’t much better than how you are now, but,” Kaidan tipped a shoulder, tracing his thumb up Shepard’s back, “…Conditioning, I guess you could call it.”

 

                Snorting into his arms, Shepard sniffled before another shudder rolled through him, nails scathing lightly over his buzzed scalp, not faint enough that he couldn’t feel it, and not hard enough that it hurt, but the perfect amount, that Kaidan knew too well. Kaidan knew _him_ too well, running his nails up from the nape of his neck to the top of his head, down the sides, the good kind of goosebumps rising along his form.

 

                If Shepard didn’t know himself better, he would think that he was purring, an overgrown cat revelling under the attention to his sweet spots. With the touches came more coldness, seeping through his skin, feeling like it went right into his skull, the sweat on his body swiped away, replaced with pleasingly warm lips.

 

                “Won’t last long, Shepard. Don’t worry,” Kaidan whispered against him, drops of water from his wet hair flicking off and landing on him. He must’ve napped longer than he realized, if the Major had already gone and showered, especially so with how he knew how much time he took with the whole grooming thing.

 

                “Doesn’t stop it from hurting now,” He muttered. Chances were, the painkillers would either not work at all, or they’d only give a few moments of relief. The cybernetics that kept him alive had a tendency to wipe out all drugs from his system much too quickly.

 

                He slowly lifted a hand back, trying to keep his head from spinning and trying to keep the movement down, cupping the back of Kaidan’s neck, keeping him close. Shepard thread his fingers into his damp hair, listening to his breath, his quiet humming.

 

                “Come here,” Kaidan told him, taking his hands away and gently tugging him over, scooting further back on the bed. Huffing, Shepard slid over on his belly, looking completely sad while doing so, face pressed into the covers, scrabbling along until he finally had his head in the Major’s lap.

 

                Nosing Kaidan’s thin shirt, Shepard breathed him in. He smelt clean, Alliance-grade soap to scratch away the grit of a day’s work, the dirt and caked blood, but he still smelt like Kaidan, something he couldn’t pick, something he loved, anyway.

 

                “The great Commander Shepard isn’t gonna’ let a small headache keep him down, is he…?” Kaidan asked, scratching at his scalp again, the strictly 4mm protocol length bristles of dark hair. Shepard couldn’t even remember what they looked like grown out after so long. He was about to object, tell him it wasn’t a _small_ headache, but then he remembered who he was talking to and bit his tongue. The owner of the lap he was flopped over knew so much worse and was also so much better at handling them.

 

                He peered up, and those glowing eyes looked back, half-lidded, relaxed, though still with that hint of concern that made him feel almost selfish for having it directed his way. He could get lost in the wavering bi-colours, wrapping his arms around Kaidan’s hips and burying his face into his belly again, hard muscle covered with the right amount of fat for aesthetics. At least Shepard thought so. He liked it, a lot.

 

                Taking another breath in, his lids began feeling heavy again, and he guessed he could spare a few more hours to sleep off the migraine. He was content right there, unconsciously tightening his arms around him.

 

                Shepard mightn’t have had a permanent home before, but this was close. This was home.   


End file.
